


'tis the damn season

by maximoffs



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Kid Fic, M/M, Meet-Cute, awkward holiday feelings, cozy coffee shops and twinkle lights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28224525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximoffs/pseuds/maximoffs
Summary: “Bucky,” Wanda says, clearing her throat. “Will you help me color?” She is studiously arranging markers on her lap, their caps already off so that they leave marks on her white tights.“Sure,” Bucky says, slowly placing them on the table in front of them. “Where’s your coloring book?”Wanda looks at Bucky, then looks at her brother. Slowly, Pietro rolls his sleeves up to reveal where they’ve already drawn outlines of bizarre looking animals all over his bare arms.“Oh,” Bucky says.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 24
Kudos: 183





	'tis the damn season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kinesnerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinesnerd/gifts).



> happy holidays, stuckys! 🎄 🎄 i wanted to give away a fic this year and when kinesnerd requested a holiday meet cute or kid fic i thought it'd be cute to combine them. i hope you enjoy this!!

The worst thing about the holiday season, Bucky thinks, is everything. After fourteen claustrophobic experiences in various stores, thirty-two cheerful Christmas carols that all sounded the same, and almost being knocked over by a family of five, he’s at his wit’s end trying to do last minute shopping for his family and colleagues and maintain his sanity at the same time. It wasn’t always like this. Bucky can remember a time where he enjoyed wrapping gifts and movies about runaway Santa Clauses, spiked apple cider and the general concept of mistletoe. 

Now, standing on the second floor of a shopping center that seems to span four states, he thinks he must have had a fever in those days. 

Becca has, unceremoniously, emailed him a list of things she “needs” which include, but are not limited to: bath bombs, an overly expensive planner, the new Legend of Zelda game, a book on cults, a light-up keyboard, and a vintage cardboard cutout of 2001 Orlando Bloom from the Fellowship of the Ring. It’s laughable that she thinks that 1. she’s getting anything more than a pair of socks from him and 2. if Bucky ever found a vintage cardboard cutout of 2001 Orlando Bloom from the Fellowship of the Ring, he would then _give it away_. 

He finds the nearest GameStop on the mall directory and begrudgingly makes his way toward it, going over the list of other gifts he still needs to locate. A Bill Withers vinyl for Sam Wilson, who works in the office next to him and handles accounting. A “Vikings Daily” calendar for their HR director, Loki Laufeyson, who is very obviously in love with his fuck buddy but will eat his own arm before admitting it. More socks for Natasha Romanoff, who keeps her interests so guarded you would think she kills men for fun, and maybe a little note that reads: “Do you kill men for fun?”

There’s fake ivy and twinkle lights wrapped around the pillars. Signs pointing the way to Santa, who is here to take photographs with the kids, but only from 1pm to 5pm, because apparently Santa has better things to do than sit around at a mall all day. Bucky thinks, _it can’t possibly get any worse than this_. 

And of course it does. 

_I’ll Be Home for Christmas_ starts playing at the exact moment Bucky opens the door to the Disney store, distracted by a stuffed Eeyore wearing a Santa hat that he wants to take a closer look at, and walks right into a man who is clearly not looking where he’s going because his arms are full of a life-sized Goofy, dressed as a wizard. 

“Watch it,” Bucky hisses at the exact moment the man laughs and says: “Whoops! I guess I didn’t see you there.” 

“I guess not,” Bucky says, and if tones of voices could kill this holiday-shopping moron would be dead on the ground with his dumb Goofy toy on top of him. Until, that is, he lowers the Goofy toy to reveal his face. “Actually,” Bucky says, quickly, “it’s completely fine.”

The man, who is obviously so very beautiful that it hurts to breathe, raises an eyebrow. “What changed?”

“I’m shallow,” Bucky deadpans, and earns a genuine laugh. 

“And honest,” very-beautiful-Christmas-moron replies. 

“People tend to think that’s a good thing. You know— because the alternative would be... a liar.”

“That’s fair,” Christmas moron says, smiling. “I can’t abide liars.”

Bucky opens his mouth to respond but a noise from four feet off the ground beats him to it. “You’re blocking the _door_ ,” the small, terrible voice says. “It’s not _polite_.” 

“You’re right, Wanda,” Goofy-plushie-holder says, gently pulling them aside, “we’re being rude to the other shoppers. Did you lose your brother again?”

“I didn’t lose him,” Wanda says, frowning. Bucky hates that this child— who can’t be more than six— is exceptionally cute. She doesn’t bear much of a resemblance to the man who is currently ruining Bucky’s life, but it’s clear enough from the look on his face that they belong to one another. “I know exactly where he is.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Where is he?”

“Over there,” Wanda says, almost too casually, and points to the bannister where another small person is dangerously close to hanging off of it.

“I— _Jesus_ — ” the man says, before running off to rescue the child, dragging Wanda along with him. 

Bucky watches them only long enough to make sure that there’s no real emergency. And then just like that— he’s alone again.

He walks into the store, too distracted to properly look at anything, and promptly leaves without making a single purchase. He does the same thing at GameStop and then at the bookstore before deciding he has had enough mall torture for the day. The man— with his soft, blond hair and sweet smile— has completely derailed the mood, which was, of course, “murderous.” Now it’s just “slightly grumpy” and maybe even “Melancholy,” with a capital M. Bucky is _not_ the type for theatrics, because honestly between Loki and Tony at the office there isn’t any room for it. But he _is_ a human being, and he does think, sometimes, that it would be nice to cozy up to someone special during the holidays, and also during the not so special occasions, too, when life loses its magic. Cold mornings in March waiting for the subway to come. A borrowed scarf. 

Bucky leaves the shopping center and he drives home, thinking of nothing. 

  
  


*

  
  


Days pass. Sam Wilson has a habit of walking into his office with his phone cranked up to Mariah’s _All I Want For Christmas Is You_ and pretending like this is normal and everything is fine. Everything is not fine. Bucky has managed to order most of his gifts online but he still has an office Secret Santa item to procure, he can’t find a lifesize cardboard cutout of Legolas anywhere, and he’s been trying to hit Mariah’s whistle-note in the shower for an entire week with no success. He thinks his cat hates him now because of it, which is completely fair. To top it all off, Wilson keeps saying things like “company Christmas party” and “you’re coming to the company Christmas party, right?” and “don’t forget the office Christmas party.”

It’s time, Bucky thinks, for the season to be over. These days, by the time he leaves the office the sky has already darkened; it feels like stepping out into an absence. Bucky drives to his favorite coffee shop after work— a quiet one, downtown, where all the lights are strung up like stars— to read and people-watch by the window. Some things make him feel lonely in a good way, as if his life ere a movie. It’s nice to be among the living. 

He’s halfway down the block when he realizes that it has started to snow. 

He’s opening the door when he notices two small, familiar faces pressed to the window of the cafe, blowing out their breath and drawing pictures in the glass. He goes inside.

“Do they ever sit still?” Bucky asks by way of greeting. The man from the mall has his nose in a book; he puts it down now and looks genuinely pleased when he recognizes Bucky. 

“It’s you,” he says, smiling. 

“It’s me.”

“And no,” he continues with a sigh. “They never sit still. Actually— do you mind?” He stands, gesturing at the pastry case. “I just want to get them a cookie or something. And— whatever you want?”

“Sugar,” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow. “At this hour. You’re a brave, reckless man.”

“I know,” he laughs. “Maybe an oatmeal raisin one, though. So it’s healthy.”

“Oatmeal? So you’re brave _and_ a villain.” 

“Most of my friends just call me Steve, though.”

“Steve,” Bucky nods. “I’m Bucky.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Bucky,” Steve says, and smiles that smile again. Like the lights in the trees. Like magic. 

Bucky has to pull himself back to the present; he forces himself to shrug. “Sure, I don’t mind,” he says, and takes a seat on the cushy sofa chair next to the twins. 

“You didn’t tell me what you’d like.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Steve says. “Gingerbread latte? Something with peppermint?”

“Just a coffee,” Bucky says.

“Peppermint mocha,” Steve says, nodding. “Got it.” 

And before Bucky can protest, he’s gone. 

Even in his high school days, Bucky didn’t babysit. He looked after Becca from time to time, but their age difference wasn’t much of a gap, and for all of her trollish ways she never gave him much trouble when they were alone. They were serious kids, the both of them: serious about their school work and serious about their goodness. They wanted to be good. 

Looking at these kids— who introduce themselves as Wanda and Pietro— Bucky can tell this is not the case. 

“Bucky,” Wanda says, clearing her throat. “Will you help me color?” She is studiously arranging markers on her lap, their caps already off so that they leave marks on her white tights. 

“Sure,” Bucky says, slowly placing them on the table in front of them. “Where’s your coloring book?”

Wanda looks at Bucky, then looks at her brother. Slowly, Pietro rolls his sleeves up to reveal where they’ve already drawn outlines of bizarre looking animals all over his bare arms. 

“Oh,” Bucky says. 

“Dinosaurs are our favorite,” Wanda explains. She points to a shaky looking oval near Pietro’s elbow. “This is the magnetosaurus rex.”

“That’s not real,” Bucky mumbles.

“Pink, please,” Wanda says, holding her hand out like a tiny surgeon. Bucky places the pink marker into her open palm. 

“Orange, please.”

“Yellow, please.”

It goes on like this, until Steve comes back. 

“Wow,” he says, placing a menorah-shaped cookie in front of the twins, and a cup of something steaming and topped with whipped cream and candy bits in front of Bucky. “That’s certainly a choice.”

“Happy Hanukkah,” Bucky says.

“Oh.” Steve takes the seat next to him, keeping an eye on the twins but managing to pay attention to Bucky as well. “I’m not Jewish, but these two are.”

“Passes down through the mother, right?”

“That’s right,” Steve nods. “Their mother isn’t really in the picture, but I try to make sure they know who they are and where they come from.”

Bucky takes a sip that’s all whipped cream, and realizes he doesn’t hate it. “So you’re… divorced?”

“It’s… complicated.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, shrugging, not sounding sorry at all. “I hate small talk, so I try to get straight to the important stuff.”

“Like my marital status.”

“Mhm.” If his eyes flick down Steve’s face, to his mouth, then along his broad shoulders— Bucky doesn’t try to hide it. 

“I’m fostering,” he finally says. “No relation to either parent.”

“What’s that like?”

Steve looks as though he’s considering this; as though no one has asked him about it before. “Equal parts challenging and rewarding, I think,” he finally says. “And… wholly wonderful. I didn’t know how attached I’d get, or how much I’d love them.”

At this, they both look over to the twins, who have started crushing the cookie onto the table with their tiny fists.

“They seem really well-behaved,” Bucky deadpans. When Steve throws his head back to laugh, it feels like all the lights in the world have turned on. 

“Do you ever… want a break?”

“Oh,” Steve says, giving him a look that clearly reads _are you insane?_ “Absolutely. Desperately. I have a babysitter but he’s really bad at his job.”

Bucky grins. “Are you sure you’re paying him enough?”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Bucky,” Steve says, slowly. “You’ve met them, right? My kids?” Something about the way he says _my kids_ gets caught and sticks somewhere in Bucky’s chest. He shakes it off. He usually isn’t this sentimental. 

“Well,” he says, half-smiling, “I’ve imposed on you enough.”

“It’s not imposing.” 

“Still,” Bucky says, standing. He realizes, suddenly, that he’s running from something he doesn’t have the word for yet. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“We come here a lot,” Steve nods. “Maybe we’ll see you around.”

“Maybe,” Bucky says, nodding back. 

When he walks out, he makes sure not to look back. 

  
  


*

  
  


The evening of the company Christmas party, which is held every year on the top floor of an expensive hotel, arrives and Bucky finds himself feeling like the Grinch by a table of hors d'oeuvres. 

“I think you’re supposed to wait until a waiter comes to you with those,” Wilson says, sidling up to him. He looks irritatingly handsome in a burgundy suit, holding a glass of champagne. 

“I hate,” Bucky says, under his breath, “how good you look in that suit.”

“Aw,” Sam replies, giving him a shit-eating grin. “You coming on to me?”

“I gave up on straight guys in college.”

“Smart.”

“But if you’re ever curious.”

“You know you’re the only guy on my speed dial, baby.”

Bucky laughs, popping another stuffed mushroom into his mouth. “How long do you think I have to stay to appease Romanoff?”

“Oh, I’d say at least another two hours,” Sam says, checking his watch.

“Fuck.” 

“Get a drink.” Sam raises his glass. “It helps.” 

“Fine,” Bucky mumbles, wandering over to the open bar. There’s a line because it is an open bar at a holiday party and while Bucky is waiting on it he has the time to think all manner of thoughts, including but not limited to: how it is that they have the same boring corporate Christmas party every year despite everyone hating it, how many of these he has been to, how many of these he has been to alone, how many of these he will continue to go to, over and over, alone and alone, watching his friends and colleagues date and break up, marry and have children, sometimes divorce, sometimes find eternal love— solid, steady love— the kind of love that makes you soup, the kind of love that zips you up, tucks you in, fills a snowglobe up with all of its brilliant, sparkling light. Bucky tells himself that it is not this kind of love that he is running from, but the absence of it— another kind of attachment wearing the costume of real love. Bucky knows ultimately that it is the same thing— the running— that casting no net at all will bring you nothing. That nothing will come of nothing. 

He passes the time as he thinks of these things. An ex once asked him who had hurt him so badly that he was this closed off, walls of ice built around his body. The truth was that no one had hurt him. Bucky never let anyone get close enough. 

He orders a glass of wine; he’s about to turn away when he spots a familiar crop of hair from across the room. 

“Make that two glasses,” Bucky says, before he can think better of it. 

“We keep running into each other,” he says, when he catches up with Steve. And then: “You don’t work here.”

“No,” Steve says, processing Bucky’s presence and then smiling, like he’s relieved. Like to see Bucky is a relief. “I’m actually a plus-one. Is that for me?” He nods at the glass of wine Bucky’s holding.

“It was before I found out you’re here with someone.”

“Just Nat!”

“Nat?” Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Natasha? Natasha Romanoff?”

“The one and only. How do you know her?”

“I report to her.” 

“So she’s your boss,” Steve says, his smile widening.

Instead of replying, Bucky hands over the wine. “How do you two know each other?”

“We grew up together. Want to take a walk with me?”

“If it’s to see Romanoff, no.”

Steve laughs. “It’s not,” he says, and taking Bucky gently by the elbow, begins to lead him away. 

Round tables with six chairs each are scattered around the room. There are two open bars, one on either side of the space, wreaths and lights twinkling on the walls. Toward the far end sits the largest indoor Christmas tree Bucky has ever seen, covered in white and silver and gold ornaments. Gifts are piled under it, though he assumes the boxes are empty. Steve sidesteps the people and the tables, and leads them out to the balcony where a couple shares a cigarette and talks in hushed tones. 

Outside, the air is cold but welcome after the stifling heat of the party. Lights from other buildings line the sky instead of stars. Bucky turns toward Steve, who is smiling at him again.

“You seemed uncomfortable in there,” he says.

“I wasn’t,” Bucky lies.

For the first time since they’ve met, Steve looks uncertain of himself. “Oh,” he says. “Then— we could go back in, or— ”

“This is fine,” Bucky interrupts. “I’m not huge on crowds.” 

“Me either.”

They settle into a comfortable sort of silence, looking out to the city, the cars and noises below. Bucky can feel the warmth of Steve beside him, forearms sturdy against the railing. He wants to lean into him— to convince himself he’s really there— that they both are— that this isn’t some bizarre holiday dream. A beautiful man appears out of nowhere and you can’t stop seeing him. It’s like a gift. It can be taken away. 

“How are the twins?” Bucky asks.

“Still alive,” Steve says. “Peter— the babysitter— texted me twenty minutes ago to confirm.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Bucky says, nodding. “I’m really glad to hear that.”

“Me too,” Steve laughs. 

They drink without looking at one another. Bucky tries so hard to avoid moments like this— the full knowledge that he’s on the precipice of something— teetering toward inevitable let-down, toward disappointing someone when they realize that you are not what they expected you to be.

“You’re guarded,” Steve says, interrupting his thoughts. “And you hate the holidays.” 

Bucky, surprised, looks at him. 

“You hate small talk,” Steve says. “I wanted to get to the important stuff.”

“My feelings about the holidays are insignificant.”

“Not to me,” Steve says. “I love the holidays.”

“That checks.”

Steve laughs. He laughs easy. It warms Bucky despite himself. 

“Anyway,” Bucky continues, “it’s not that I hate the holidays. It’s that— I just think they bring out the worst in people, when really it should be the other way around. Everyone’s climbing over one another to get a deal on an electronic no one really needs. The Salvation Army is evil. All the songs are about like… breaking up and being alone. And every year I go home and sort of forget myself.”

“What do you mean?”

Bucky considers this; he considers how comfortable he is opening up to a complete stranger— how sometimes it’s easier than opening up to someone you know. He shrugs. “It’s hometown fugue. No matter how old you are, no matter how much you’ve accomplished in your life, you go back to the place you grow up and feel like you’re stuck in time. You go to the same diner you used to frequent, see the same high school friends. They’re not even friends anymore, because you barely keep in touch— but you drink beers and watch the game anyway. It feels… ”

“Too familiar,” Steve says. “Like you could fall right back into the same monotony and never find your way out again.” 

“Exactly,” Bucky nods. “Make the same mistakes you used to make. Walk around the one mall in town that never changes, drinking sad blended coffees, letting the ice melt to the bottom.”

“Try not to run into anyone you know at the grocery store, but call your ex later anyway.”

“‘Tis the damn season,” Bucky mumbles. “What’s to love?”

Steve shrugs, finishing the last of his wine. “I’m a secret romantic. I keep thinking maybe something different will happen.”

“And has it? So far?” 

“Well,” Steve says, slowly, setting his glass down. The smokers finish their cigarette and duck back inside. Bucky watches his own breath come out visible, realizing how cold he is. “I met someone.” 

“That’s a start,” Bucky says. He drinks.

“Yeah, I mean— I hope so. I don’t know. I think he’s a little clueless.”

“Maybe you need to be clearer.” 

“You think?” Steve asks, so quietly Bucky almost doesn’t hear it. Bucky realizes how intently he’s looking at him, and finds it difficult to breathe. “Let’s make a deal,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“When you go home for Christmas this year, don’t call your ex.”

Bucky nearly smiles. “What should I do instead?”

“Wait,” Steve says.

“For?”

“Me.”

Bucky watches him for long enough that he blushes, looking as shy as Bucky has ever seen him. 

“I’m not great at relationships,” Bucky says, and Steve seems to shrink. 

“I get that,” he says, forcing out a smile. “Well, if you ever change your mind— ”

“But I can try,” Bucky blurts out, quickly, before he can stop himself. “I can try.” 

“I’d like that,” Steve says, and his smile turns into something more beautiful. 

Later, after they’ve had more to drink and enough to eat and managed to even make Natasha laugh, after couples and friends have taken to the dance floor, after the hour has grown late enough that the crowd starts to yawn, that people start to wish each other well and kiss cheeks and slip out the door, after Steve and Bucky have exchanged numbers and decided on a date, they take the elevator down together and walk out the door. It’s snowing in big, soft puffs, melting in their hair and eyelashes.

Steve lifts his hand for a cab while Bucky huffs warm air into his own two palms.

“You want me to drop you off?” Steve asks.

“I’m just two blocks away,” Bucky says. “I like to walk.” 

“It’s freezing. You don’t have to wait here.” 

“I know,” Bucky says. 

They stand together anyway— unable to look at one another, or stop smiling. A car begins to slow, signals to Steve to wait where he is. 

“This wasn’t terrible,” Bucky says, “as far as holiday parties go.”

“It wasn’t,” Steve agrees.

“I’ll see you when I get back.”

“I’ll see you,” Steve says.

There’s a moment where something can happen. The moment tugs at Bucky’s body, his arms, his shoulders, and Bucky ignores the moment, and turns around, and walks away. 

Half a minute later, when he turns back around, the car is pulling up to the sidewalk, and Steve is inches away from it. In a brief fit of mania, Bucky breaks into a jog, quickly making up the space between them— and before Steve can reach the handle of the car door, Bucky is cupping his face, both-handed, and pulling him into a kiss. If Steve is surprised he doesn’t show it but holds Bucky firmly in place instead. And kisses him back. 

When they pull away Steve’s nose and cheeks are pink, and he’s smiling, slightly bewildered. 

“I just wanted you to know I was serious,” Bucky says. 

“I hoped you were,” Steve says.

“It’s been really nice to meet you,” Bucky says. “And the kids.” 

“They like you, too.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah— they keep asking about you,” Steve says with a laugh. “Wanda’s got some new dinosaurs she wants to talk about.” 

“I— ” Bucky starts, just as the cabbie rolls his window down and begins shouting at them. Before either of them can apologize, the driver flips them off and pulls away. They look at one another, blinking. 

“Tis the damn season, huh?” Steve finally says, and pulls Bucky in for another kiss. 

They wait for the next car together. And for the first time in a long time, the worst thing about the holiday season is nothing at all. 


End file.
